Heal All Wounds
by kkolmakov
Summary: The fourth story about Dr. John Thorington and Wren Leary in the modern AU installment of "Touch the Nerve", "Strike the Cord" and "Cut Through the Heart". He loves her, she loves him, now what? *No Infringement Intended*
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Thank you all so much for reading and reviewing "Cut Through the Heart"!

I was obviously considering following up on the story since this installment of Wren and John turned out to be so delicious :) Dr. T being so Thorin, and dark and sexy :) and Wren being so young and having so much room for growth. And I would miss her "Oh poop!" if I had to let them go.

I will write more about them but I can't seem to decide whether to go with a full scale story or as it was suggested by UKReader (pure strike of genius, my friend!:) by an endless series of one-shots :)

Both options seem so promising and there are still so many stories to tell! Thea is my all time favourite character, Lan and Killian, Deadre still hasn't gotten her swift but just punishment, Phil needs serious rewiring in his noggin, and there needs to be a WEDDING! Yes, I know, you are shocked, but Dr. T turns out to be a marrying type! Her dress, though... Oh, and did you know that typical usage failure for contraception pills is 6%? Considering how much sex these two are having...

Please, leave your votes in your reviews to this file!

Thank you again! I love you all!

Once the overall majority opinion is clear I'll start on the sequel right away. Let's face it I already have a draft for the first chapter;)


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Alrighty, my lovelies, it's official. "Heal All Wounds" is on! And it is a multichapter fic! Drabbles, one-shots and random bits are in "Medicine Cabinet". Since I'm juggling half a dozen stories here, and should actually be working on my thesis as well, I am not asking for too many prompts right now! But if you really want to see something about Wrennie and Dr. T, especially in "Medicine Cabinet", give me a shout! :) I already got a question regarding a wedding dress and it's in progress :)**

You are late. Three fucking days late. To say you are in bloody panic is to say nothing. This morning you were literally sitting on a loo and talking to your lady parts, pleading. You obviously did the test, five to be precise, but human fertility is exactly what you are studying right now and can test anything and everything better than the bloody blue stick. You also know that it is too early to say.

Yesterday you were still fine, almost laughing about it, but this morning you are a full scale psycho. You tried to leave your dorm without your shoes, you were bumping into people in the halls, you spazzed out during Perkins. After the unpleasant conversation in Dean's office five weeks ago, he is quiet and didn't even say anything when in the middle of his lecture you dropped a book on the floor with a loud thud. In any other circumstances you would gloat over his newly achieved compliance before the Newly Crowned Queen of Biochem, but you seriously have more important things to think about right now.

On lunch break you get a text from John, inviting you for dinner. You blame loads of homework and refuse. The hours in the lab drag, and you run to the washroom every half an hour to stare at your underwear in the hopes to see red. Nope, no such luck.

**XXX**

You are finishing your third fairy cake when Thea saunters through the entrance door. She freezes with her keys still in her hand and stares at you. "What is wrong, Wren?"

"I am late." The keys fall on the floor with a clang. You grab the fourth cake. Thea sheds her coat and slides on a chair in front of you. You are not looking at her. "How long?" You lift three fingers, your mouth busy chewing the nauseating sticky icing. "Has it ever happened before?" You shake your head and look at her. Her eyes are enormous. She is pitying you! Well, you are fucking pitying yourself at this moment even more.

"You are on a pill, right?" Nod. "How long has been with you two? Six, seven weeks?" "Eight, and a half," you are choking and wonder if you are finally going into sugar coma. "Did you do a test? What am I asking, of course you did. Negative, I suppose." Nod. "Did you tell him?" You look at her obviously delegating the idea that she is out of her bloody mind. "Right… If you are pregnant," you are going to throw up now, "will you tell him?"

First you want to yell that of course, yes, what else?! But then you freeze. What are you going to do if…? You can't even mentally pronounce it. For the last three days you just thought of it as the worst that could happen to your studies and budding relationships with the arrogant, overbearing and cantankerous, though endlessly brilliant neurosurgeon Dr. John Crispin Throington. To a great degree due to his peculiar personal history.

It is all wrong! Wrong time, wrong relationships, the man is fine, but the circumstances are wrong! There is always the way out obviously, but you just don't want to think about it. For the past 72 hours or so you have thought of it as an unfortunate event. You have not for a single second thought of it as a baby.

You are violently vomiting. Really should have gone for pink cakes, this blue barf is additionally disturbing. Like a Smurf that got into a blender and met his swift demise there. Thea is holding your hair. She is very quiet. For the first time since you've known her. You are grateful.

You brush your teeth and crawl under your blanket. You close your eyes and take a deep breath. You need to think. Thinking always helps. In the last year you really learnt the value of not spasming like a barmy chicken but trying to use your noggin.

**XXX**

The next morning doesn't bring any good news. And you do three more tests. This time Thea is standing behind the washroom door. She is still very quiet, and it start irking you out. Never before she felt shy to express her opinion, loudly and eloquently.

The tests' results are funny. Two are definitely negative, and the third one acts like a blushing virgin in the hands of a charming rascal. It just can't seem to make up its mind. You stuff them into a rubbish and come out. Thea is sitting on a sofa with a tense expression.

"Seriously, knock it off, Thea! What the fuck is wrong with you?" Yep, your nerves are toast. But luckily she is a good friend. She doesn't yell back. She lifts her eyes at you, but then you see tears. "Thea?" You sit near her. "Common, Thea, what's wrong?" She wraps around you and starts sobbing loudly. Oh bollocks, that's not good. It's like Doomsday not good. Thea does not under any circumstances sob. She cried once in the last two years and it was quiet, sad crying. This is bawling and wailing Wren style. It's almost scarier that an almost positive test.

You are rubbing her back but it takes her about five minutes to calm down. She goes to the washroom, rinses her face and comes out, her nose pink, eyes puffy. "I did it last year, Wren. What you are thinking of doing now, I did it." She sadly nods, but you are still lost. "Did what, Thea?" "Kill it." You feel like vomiting again. The way she put it, "kill"... You want to scream that it's not killing, you just take two pills and forget about it.

But then you remember your dreams. The dark haired toddler with blue eyes. And nausea rises again. Thea is taking short shallow breaths. "Are you going to do it?"

Then you get angry. You are being fucking unfair, but you just can't do it any more. "What is my alternative, Thea?" You are too loud, your voice too sarcastic, too cruel. You jump up and start running around the room. She gets up too. "Should I tell Dr. Dark and fucking Sexy that I'm up the duff?! He will think I'm another sperm bandit, trying to tie him down! Or he will make me kill it anyways." To your own terror you realize you are wrapping your arms around your stomach.

Thea is shaking. "What are you going to do then? Just deal with it and never tell him?" What are your other options? Raising a child alone? Because it's as sure as hell he will not stay with you if there is indeed a baby. You have a sudden clear image in your head how he leaves and then you see him once a month when he coldly writes you a check. You whimper. Thea is crying again.

Then you remember who is in front of you. You rush to her and hug her tight. Fuck Dr. Sexy, fuck the almost positive test, Thea is what matters now. You lead her to the sofa and pull her as close as you can. You let her cry and talk. The story is as sad as it is common. She doesn't know whom it was from, and it was fast and efficient. What they apparently don't tell you is the devastating feeling of shame and emptiness when your first period starts. She is crying herself to sleep, head on your lap. You are stroking her hair and think.


	3. Chapter 3

A few hours later Thea drags herself out of the flat and heads for her classes, you get dressed and go to yours. You get another text from John, and you are so buggered that you honestly don't know what to answer. In the lab after lectures you are literally staring at the black screen of your turned off laptop.

A smart girl would do the following. Book an appointment at the uni clinic in two days, go and let them take her blood, and know her answer. Meanwhile, that said smart girl would make her decision regarding what to do with… the situation. As you have undeniably established by now, you are not a very smart girl.

You send John a text and ask him if you can meet after your work. He graciously invites you over. You check the clock on the wall around seven hundred times, turn off the equipment, and take a bus to his flat.

You have twenty minutes to think of what you are going to say. Instead you start thinking about everything that is wrong with your relationships with Dr. John Thorington. You are bloody shaking and fidget with your earphones, your iPod predictably off. Everything in your current relationships is uncomfortable. His bloody posh flat, going out with him, due to the age difference and his choice of restaurants. On the other hand, you can't just go to your usual pub. You hate dressing up for those dinners, but can't really make yourself eat a single piece in his giant living room. It's like Louvre, you are pretty sure Monet on the wall is real. As well as Kandinski above his gigantic bed. You obviously can't bring him to your dorm hall in uni. You probably don't show it, but sometimes you feel that spending a night in a hotel with him would be still better than the crippling discomfort you feel in his poncy building. You feel even his concierge is questioning his choice in a girlfriend.

Fuck, even calling yourself this makes you squirm on your seat. He once called you his mistress, but you are not even that. You are still waiting for him to change his mind and kick you out. And then you remember why you are going to his flat now and think that the kicking out time has arrived.

You wring your hands and bite you lip. You hardly slept the last two nights, you are wearing old denim and an oversized sweater down to you knee. You don't give a fuck. You are so bloody tired of buying new lingerie, planning your outfits, looking decent in a posh French place but not too overdressed the next day when you are going to lectures from his bloody flat! You never have breakfast with him there, you probably wouldn't be able to shove a single piece down your throat there.

You step out of the bus and freeze in front of his building. Breathe, Wren, you need to breathe. You close your eyes and do your usual mental exercise. In the past eight weeks there is only one thing that makes it all worth. Because though everything is so fucking wonky in these relationships, the man himself is not. You keep your eyes tightly shut and imagine his face. His blue eyes are honest, kind, tender and he says, "I love, Wrennie. I am in love with you".

He says it whenever he can. When he sees you, when he says goodbye, when you grab a biscuit from his plate, when you come straddling him. Every time it is determined, candid, not a pretense, not a joke, not an obligation. Every time it is a promise, it is an almost oath, and it makes everything so worth it. Everything is wrong in these relationships, except John. John is just right.

And then you think of an almost positive pregnancy test in your rubbish, and the memory of his face blurs. What will his face be like when you tell him? You have seen him cold and cruel, hateful, despising, intolerant. You have history with his bad side. And you don't like it.

You take a long breath and come up to the entrance door. Ted, the concierge opens the door for you. "Miss Leary," he gives you a polite nod. There is a bit of concern on his face. You look like shite. Pale, purple shadows under your eyes, hair in a messy knot, old sweater, trainers. You don't give a fuck. Repeat after me, Wren. You don't give a fuck.

You push a button on the lift and feel nausea rising. You are always sick when stressed. And you are very, very stressed right now. The door opens at his floor, and you knock on his door. Show time, Wren.

**XXX**

He opens the door, a glass of red wine in his hand, barefoot, the smell of lasagna hitting your nose. He is smiling, his mane is a ponytail, and you feel you might vomit right there. He steps ahead and wraps his free arm around your waist. He kisses you and spins, scooping you, pressing you into his body, transporting you inside. That is his favourite trick, apparently you weigh nothing. He kicks the door blindly to close it and proceeds kissing you. It's been five days, and he obviously missed you.

You feel tears running down your face and he lets you go, his face confused. Those who know you well are aware of that filter between your brain and mouth. The one that you are sadly missing. "I am late." He looks at the Bornholm clock by the wall. "You are actually perfectly on time, we said nine." He looks you over and finally notices the spinster with food poisoning look. "Wren, what is wrong?"

You gulp and feel you have enough strength for one more sentence. After that you will either throw up on his marble floor in the hall or start bawling. "I am four days late."

**XXX**

He is frozen in front of you, the glass is keeling, and a few drops of the wine fall on the floor. "Fuck," he straightens it up and puts on a table by the door. Then he looks at you, and his face is unreadable.

And then he steps towards you and pulls you into him. "It's alright, Wrennie, it's alright," he presses you really hard, and you start shaking uncontrollably. Then wild sobs start, and he picks you up and carries you into his living room. You are in full scale hysterics, crying loudly and clutching to his shirt. He is making soft shushing noises, sits on his sofa and envelops you in his arms. He is stroking your hair, his button-up wet from your tears, your weeping getting louder and louder. "It's alright, Wrennie, it's alright, I'll take care of you, just breathe through it…"

It seems you've been crying for a few hours, but it's probably been ten minutes, and you finally have nothing left in you. No energy, no sound, no water. He lets you go for a second, and you whimper pathetically. "It's alright, sweet, just a second..." He stretches his arm and picks up the posh Afghan quilt you always hated and were afraid to touch. It's white and probably costs more than all your clothes put together. He wraps you both in it, and you are in cocoon of his warmth and the smell of his skin.

He is still rubbing your back and murmuring comforting nonsense in your ear. You start nodding off, but he seats your straighter and looks into your eyes. "What are you going to do, Wren?" His face is serious and, to be honest, sad. You croak, voice raspy from crying, "What?" "If you are pregnant, what do you want to do with the baby?"


	4. Chapter 4

You are staring at him. "I don't know..." He nods, and you think he looks older than you have ever seen him. "What do you think I should do?" He smiles but that's a joyless smile. "It's your body, Wren." "It's your baby!" Fucking missing filter! Fuck your gob, Wren.

He looks as if you hit him. His face contorts as if in pain. "I am aware , Wren," he looks so tired. "And I would ask you to give me a chance, but again it is your decision." "A chance?" You are speaking different languages again. Another joyless, lifeless chuckle. "It is probably my last scored goal, Wren, don't think by the time some insane girl finishes her studies and builds her career I will still have it in me."

You are breathing. So far, that is as much as you are managing. Your brain feels painful, but your head is empty at the same time. The ears are ringing. You stare at the fabric of the cursed quilt. He is patiently sitting, striking your shoulder blades. You lift your eyes at him. "You want to keep it?" "Wren..." "No, wait, I have to think..." You scamper from out of his arms and off his lap. You can't think enveloped in his warmth.

"Are you telling me you are not angry? That you don't blame me? That you don't think I'm being Maya and trying to tie you down? So you believe it is an accident. Wait, fuck, you just said you thinks it's your last chance to have a child. Am I your last chance to have a baby? Oh, fuck, is this baby your last baby? No, wait..." He has comically lifted brows, and you giggle. You are obviously hysterical. "Am I your last chance for happiness?" You are already chuckling, rather loudly. You need to stop.

"Wrennie..." You hardly make it to the washroom. You fall on your knees in front of the loo but then vomiting doesn't come. After a few torturous dry heaves, you are pressing your forehead to a cold wall of his cabinet.

He knocks at the door. "Wren?" You whimper, and he comes in. He sinks on the floor near you. He isn't touching you, just leans back on a wall and stretches his endless legs. You stare at him. Somehow you really don't want to hug him. Probably, because you are afraid that if you do you will not be able to let him go. Ever. They will need to break your fingers to detach you from him.

"Wren, I love you," his voice is even, his face weary. "I know you have your life ahead of you, and you have plans, you are a rising star of Biochem after all," his lifeless smirks bloody frighten you, "and probably you are going to change your mind soon, but we are together now, and I was hoping to keep it this way for as long as possible. Until you leave."

You would have yelled some promises and confessions into his face right now, but you can't move a muscle. "If you keep the baby, you will tie yourself to me forever, have you thought of it, Wrennie?" His voice softens up. "You might have to even marry me."

That is when you throw up. He is holding your hair and then helps you rinse your face and gives you a toothbrush and toothpaste. He carries you to bed and undresses you. You curl under the luscious comforter into his side, and he is running his hand through your hair. He would be a great father.

**XXX**

You two are lying in silence, and you are thinking that if this is going to work you really need to somehow learn to talk to each other. The two of you are in two different universes. You are thinking he will throw you out of his life and either pay for the termination or pay you off. He is thinking you are going to kill your baby for the sake of your career. You both are idiots.

"I would never terminate a pregnancy," now it is your turn to speak in an even emotionless tone. His body jerks. He probably thought you were asleep. "I mean if it was consensual, and medically possible to keep it..." He is breathing in slowly. You can't see his face, you are pressing your cheek into his chest. "Yeah?" Very eloquent, Dr. Thorington.

"And John, I don't want you to marry me for the baby." Oh bollocks. He chuckles. It sounds endlessly better this time around, a warm rumble in his chest. "I love it that you just blurt out the first thing that comes to you mind." You sit up and stare at his face. The lights in the room are off, only the streetlamp outside the window giving a bit of light. His face is all shadows and outlines, but you can see a shaky smile on his lips.

"I on the other hand still want to marry you though," his voice is velvet and smoky. Bloody fuck, that is not funny, John! Not cool! "Are you mental?" He guffaws. An honest full scale guffaw, your favourite, white teeth gleaming, blue irises hiding behind fluffy black lashes, wrinkles running in the corners of his eyes. He stretches on the bed more comfortably. "That's not what a man wants to hear to his proposal, Wrennie." "That's the only thing such man gets in return to his half arsed proposal!"

He suddenly sits up in a fluid motion and pulls you to him. "Wren, will you marry me?" He is fucking serious. You feel dizzy. "And if there is no baby?" He lifts a brow. "Was I asking you about the baby?" Fucking fuck. You move away from him into a different corner of the bed. "This talk is just mental, you don't really want this, it's just the stress..."

He lifts a brow again, this time the gesture is very haughty. "Am I erratic now in your interpretation, Wren? First you think I'm cold enough to throw you out of my life, and presumably never even call to find out the gender of my child," fuck, he is onto you, "now you are thinking that I am so excited about a potential baby that I would marry a random woman just to have an offspring. Am I right in my observations, Wren?"

You gulp. "I am very honoured that you worry about what I would think and how I would react, but have you given it much thought what you think about this, Wren?" You blink. He is right, you haven't. He is leaning at the headboard now and folds his arms on his chest. "If I know you well enough, I assume you haven't actually thought about this happenstance as a child that you would have to raise, in the best case scenario from my point of view, raise him or her with me, living together, preferably married, your degree and career on hold at least for a while. And I repeat, that is your body and your decision, because it is your life we are talking about here, Wren. I know what I think about us, Wren. Do you?"


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Thank you Neewa for finding the image now used as the cover of this story. The author, Spader 7 (on Tumblr and DeviantArt) was so kind as to allow me to use it. Quick note, the picture wasn't drawn as an illustration or a cover for this story, and was just "Thorin in a suit". But Neewa is right, it is so Dr. T:)**

"You are manipulating me again!" Well, hello, here is Wren's "broken dam and yelling everything that has been bottling up for weeks stage"! He smirks. He is bloody smirking, smug fuck! "You are saying that you are giving me choice, that it's my life, but at the same time you just proposed to me and tell me we should bring up this… child together! How is that letting me decide?!"

He is very calm, and you hate this look on him! It means that it is going exactly the way he bloody wanted from the start. "Of course I'm manipulating you, Wren. The woman I love and who is potentially carrying my child constantly has one foot out of my door. I'm protecting my love life here." God, you are going to punch this lopsided grin off his face!

"I don't have one foot!... What are you talking about?" "Wrennie," he sounds like he is talking to an unreasonable child, "do you honestly think I can't see how uncomfortable you are in these relationships? I understand that every step on the way is like walking on broken glass for you. Let's face, you have every reason to bolt. You are not dating Philip or Killian here for that matter, where you have common interests and go for a pint together."

Ouch, here we go. You lasted eight weeks without talking about your transgressions with both his nephews. Fuck you, John. "Have you considered being a bit more flexible maybe? Make it less bloody uncomfortable, to fit me into your life better?" "You don't fit in my life, Wren," you really didn't need to hear it clearly fucking articulated like that, "there is no room in my life for a woman. Never was, since I really wasn't planning on letting anyone in. You just have to grow up and realize that it is not about fitting into it at all."

He rubs his face with his palms. "Wren, you are trying to be with me, I can see that you really are, but at some point it will become too inconvenient, and hard, and painful, and you will flee. Inside the frightened lonely girl you have this free spirited, stubborn woman who will eventually rebel and dump me. So you just have to decide now, whether you are planning to make it work. Pity, you can't take a few years for that like I thought initially, but as they say hard times…"

You are silent. You might be still the stupid schoolgirl with a crush on her teacher, but in the last year you learnt to actually listen to him and hear what he says. "Forgive me here," your voice is gaining its strength back, "are you telling me you were purposefully making it worse for me to see if I would snap and leave you?"

"Quite the opposite," he folds his arms on his chest again, "I was hoping you would explode like you always do and start yelling, demanding what's rightfully yours." Is he actually enjoying it? Probably not, this is his pretending to be calm smile. "And what would that be?" "Wren, you can't be the submissive one, it's just not in your nature, trying to change your whole life to accommodate me is a crazy idea, and you've been trying to do it for eight weeks. I just thought you needed to snap out of it."

"You are a sick fuck," you are shaking your head. "Wren, what _you _were trying to do was unhealthy. Have you done anything you personally wanted in the last eight weeks? I tell you we are going to the most obnoxious restaurant in the city, and you obediently buy a new dress, don't get me wrong, I especially appreciated the lavender silk one," he smirks suggestively, and you clench a fist, "and drag yourself there. You diligently eat foie gras and talk to me about Kerouac," "I like Kerouac!" "You are too young to like him!" "And you are an ageist! I am not dumb or uneducated! I do actually love Kerouac!"

He looks pleased. Oh, he wanted an explosion?! You are giving him a fucking explosion! "You are telling me I am shaping my life to fit yours, but have you considered that you are just seeing what you expect to see, John?! You think of me like a little girl and you expect me to be amenable and then grow into the role you want me to! It's not working this way! It is a mutual giving and compromising that works!" You climb off his bed. "You were hoping I would snap? Here is me snapping and leaving you."

You start getting dressed. "Get back to bed, Wren. We haven't finished talking." "I have," you are very calm and not crying. You consider that an immense progress. You pull on your jeans and sweater. "I will let you know the gender of the baby though."

You are heading to the entrance hall when he catches your arm. "Wren, we are not done talking." His voice is low and menacing. "Or what, John? You will yell and frighten me again? Slam your fist into a wall? We've been there, remember? I am not afraid of you anymore. I am also getting increasing less afraid of being without you." You can see his brilliant mind calculating and evaluating his options.

You put on your shoes. "No, Wren, please..." His eyes are panicked. You guess his giant brain hasn't come up with any elaborate way to trick you into a particular behaviour. Interesting… You stop in your tracks and look into his face. "Yes, John, what is it? Is there something you wanted to say?"

You imagine that your calm tone right now is like pushing a knife sticking out of him just a little bit deeper. You can't say you are not enjoying the agitation splashing in his eyes. You are guessing it didn't go the way he planned. Pity for you, John. Was he planning on happy sobbing and post-engagement sex? And then another thought comes.

"By the way, since you think you are such a self aware person, John, have you considered that subconsciously you were actually trying to make me dump you? So there would be no blame on you but you would be free again," you are looking at his face. He jerks.

"I love you, John, I really do, but I don't particularly like you at the moment." "I don't particularly like myself at most times, Wren." He staring at the floor. "Please, don't go..." You really should be leaving him now, walking proudly to the lift. Let's face it, you would be sobbing uglily and wiping your boogery nose with your sleeve, but that's what a dignified girl should do. Or should she?

He is right, there is a smart grown-up woman buried somewhere underneath your hysterics and panicked decisions. And that woman knows that leaving him in tears, agonizing over it at home for days to come, dealing with it alone, screaming and running around just doesn't cut it anymore. Besides other things, considering that there is potentially his child growing inside you.

And it dawns on you finally. It is a child, a baby, a person, you are its mother, and he is its father. You are its parents. And you have been thoroughly cocking up your relationships for the last few hours. Possibly for the last eight weeks. Even more possibly from the start, from the night in the bloody tent.

You take off your shoes. "Let's go to the kitchen. I need a cuppa," you walk past him. You think you see his mouth fall agape. You climb on his stupid bar stool and wait. He puts the kettle on the stove and turns to you again. The cerulean eyes are cautious but hopeful.

"So, John, we seem to be in a pickle here."


	6. Chapter 6

He is staring at you, and you are staring at your hands on the table. "You have to stop manipulating me, John. Honestly, it is so easy, so I really don't see what's your pleasure in it." He makes a noise as if he is going to say something. "Let me finish, please. I get it, these relationships are an aggro, for you especially." You look him in the eyes, they are reserved and cold. "Everything is wrong, and started wrong, and we seem to bugger it up every step on the way. And if I am not pregnant," you are momentarily surprised you can actually say it, "these relationships probably won't last." He clenches his jaw.

You sigh. "You are probably right, you are usually right. I will probably run. You make me very miserable most of the time." The kettle starts whistling, and he turns his back to you. He takes it off the stove but doesn't turn back to you. "It's like it's constantly trying to fall apart, but we keep on trying, you know?" He grabs a mug and pours you tea. Milk and honey, the way you like it. He is twirling the spoon in it, and he is silent.

"I didn't know you were miserable..." His voice is gruff. "I am not, sorry I said it that way," you shake your head, "It came out wrong. What I meant I make myself miserable because of you. It's just sometimes it is so fucking good, and then it is back to that..." He puts the mug in front of you, but doesn't lift his eyes. "My thoughts are bit buggered right now, sorry… What I'm trying to say..."

"Is that we don't work and you are dumping me." He snaps but then closes his eyes. "Sorry, please go on..." "I am not dumping you," you take a sip, "I'm just saying that we need to try something else. Since this is not working." His eyes fly open, and he looks at you in surprise.

"Like what?" You shrug. "We can get married like you proposed and see how that goes." He is staring at you. This befuddled look, mouth slightly open and eyes wide is actually quite fetching on him. Maybe you should endeavour to achieve it more often. The tea is bloody delicious.

You are sipping it nonchalantly. "You just said I make you miserable." "Isn't it a prerequisite for any marriage?" You look at him over the rim of the mug. He seems to be finally catching up with you. He tilts his head, and his eyes blaze up. "You are actually not kidding..." You shrug again.

You put the mug down. "That's how I see it. You can't let me into your life, I get it, it's all bloody organized, and the Kandinski, and the Ming dynasty vase in your study..." He chuckles. "It's a replica." "Whatevs, John," you exaggerate your pikey accent, and he chuckles louder, "And I can't seem to relax and actually enjoy the massive benefits of being with you." You suggestively lift a brow. He starts walking around the table.

"So maybe, we should just start from a scratch, build a new life together, none of your old habits, none of my insecurity" you turn on the chair so that he has better access to your body, "Tabula rasa and shite." He picks you up under your arms and pulls you into him. "I love it when you speak dead languages to me," his murmur rumbles deep in his chest, and you wrap your legs around his waist. "Aut caesar, aut nihil, John. What is it going to be?" He smiles and presses his lips to yours. "Caesar, Wren."

You bite his bottom lip, he starts carrying you to the bedroom. He is kissing your jaw. "I want it to be my official title from now on. Caesar Wren… Has a nice ring to it." He throws you on the bed and presses his fist to his chest. "Ave, caesar, morituri te salutant!" You think about all the puns you can produce right now about "the little death" but he jerks off his shirt, and you mouth goes dry. Puns will have to wait. For quite a while.

**XXX**

You wake up from excruciating pain in your abdomen. You sit up and feel blood pooling between your thighs. He is sprawled on the bed near you, on his stomach, half of his large naked body hanging off the edge of the bed. He was knackered when he fell asleep. "John..." Your voice is strangled, you try shaking his shoulder. "John..." Another wave of pain slashes across your middle, and you whimper.

He slowly stirs out of sleep and opens his eyes. He sees your face and sit up jerkingly. The sheet under you is soaked. His eyes widen in terror. There is fucking so much blood… He rolls off the bed and grabs his jeans from the floor.

**XXX**

You are yelling at each other in the car. "I am not letting your mate examine my vagina! And besides, if we go to that hospital everyone will know..." "Shut up," he turns right across two lanes, "Graham is the best gyno in the country!.." "If you carry me through..." You hiss from another painful cramp, "If you carry me through the emergency rooms in that hospital, all my classmates and professors will know! It's in the same bloody building!" He clenches his teeth and growls. "Not the priority right now, Wren..." "I'm obviously bleeding from my vagina and you are obviously just out of bed! Take me to the back door!" "It'll take longer..." If he bloody kills you both in a car crash right now, it will take even longer! "I am not letting Graham Dwalinson touch my cunt!" "You are losing my child right now! I don't care what you think!" He is yelling, and slams his hand into the wheel, and you shut up.

**XXX**

They give you some shot and everything is very fuzzy. Through the glass door, you see John and Dwalinson talking outside your room. The git is as scary as it gets. You had a short seminar with him last year, after all fetal brain is your topic. He is giant, larger than John, massive arms. If you didn't know that he is the God of Lady Parts in this hemisphere, you wouldn't let him anywhere near your nether regions.

The door opens quietly and they come in. You hate hospitals. Mostly for the white. So much white… Your thoughts are disarrayed. "Hello, Miss Leary." Even his voice is arse scary. "Hi." He looks at you and the eyes are surprisingly soft. "We need to talk about your diagnosis. Do you want Dr. Thorington to leave?" You look at John. He looks pale but he seems better than in the car. He tied his hair and his shirt is tucked in. "He can stay."

Turns out you weren't pregnant. It is endometriosis. You cervix went bonkers and is currently trying to kill you. Well, that's an exaggeration, but you are in trouble. You listen, nod but at some point you phase out. Funny, you really haven't felt anything different yesterday, and you shagged like five times, and couple of those position were really deeply penetrating. Shouldn't there be pain during intercourse?

"Wren?" John's voice shakes you out of your stupour. You blink. "Sorry, I blanked out here for a sec. What were you saying?" Dwalinson smirks. "We are keeping you here till the evening, but if everything goes smooth you won't need a surgery. I'm prescribing you a course of hormones, and you need bedrest for a few days." You nod. He screws his eyes at John and they seem to be having some sort of a silent dialogue.

It actually looks fucking impressive. It's like they actually exchange lines. A twitch of an eyebrow, movements of eyes, John's lips slightly press together, Dwalinson widens his eyes for a bit. "Can I participate in this conversation as well? I have a feeling you are talking about my private parts." You are sleepy and weak but you still won't be ignored. Dwalinson looks at you and you see mischievous glint in his eyes.

"Bedrest, pills and no intercourse for a while." You yawn. "Don't worry, doc," he stopped being scary some time around he was silently telling John to keep it in his pants, "After this Crimson Niagara don't think I'll feel like it soon." He burst into booming laughter.

On his way out of his room, he slams his palm into John's back. "Well done for once, Thorington." John shakes his head. You feel all nice and fuzzy inside. You got the approval of the best mate. Would you look at that...

John sits on the edge of your bed, and you stretch your hand towards him. His large hands envelop your fingers, and then you feel his lips on your knuckles. You feel your eyes closing. He is gently stroking your hair. You are still fighting the sleep. "Are you upset?" He kisses your temple. "I'm mostly worried about you." His voice is soft and loving. You have about two second before the drug knocks you out completely. "Did you want it to be?.." His face is blurry. He presses his lips to yours. "Get better, and we will make another one." Or maybe you are already dreaming.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: I could not stay away from this story today (though I mostly preoccupied with "Thorin's Trust" these days) for one simple reason. HAVE YOU SEEN LATEST PHOTOS OF RICHARD ARMITAGE AT EMPIRE AWARDS?! (And I don't normally like CapsLock:) It is Dr. T! It is freaking Dr. John freaking Thorington! (In my mind he is much wider than RA though, since he was born out of Hobbit Behind the Scenes imagery of RA in his prosthetics but scarely tall, but still...) I'm dead! (Not really, I'm frantically typing!:)**

It is actually very nice to be tucked in bed all day. Especially if it is such a luxurious big bed, and you manage to ignore the intimidating Kandinski above your head. Especially since you also get to be waited on by a gorgeous man. It is not bloody nice though, because whatever you said in the hospital you want that man in the bed with you. And he resists.

Literally, he presses his hands into the edge of the bed, and you can't pull him into it. He is so bloody heavy! "Wren..." Your lips are too busy to answer. God, his neck is delicious! "We can't…" "But I'm feeling fine..." Your words are muffled, and you add some teeth. You know what he likes. He jumps away. "The kettle is probably ready. I'll make you tea," he clears his throat. And has to adjust his crotch. Let's face it, you do know what he likes.

You fall back into the sheets with an "oomph". It's been four days, and you are bored. And horny, you are so fucking horny. The bed smells like him, Hermes Epic Marine and something specifically him, and you nuzzle a pillow, then you realize you are rubbing your whole body to the sheets like a feline. OK, that needs to be addressed.

You jump out of the bed and quickly walk into the kitchen. He is decorously stirring your tea. "I need an orgasm." His jaw drops. Literally, his mouth is slightly open, his eyes wide. You are standing in front of him, his tee reaching midthigh. "I get it, doctor's orders and such, but I'm so randy that I literally almost just came from humping your blanket."

He can't contain a smile, and you feel miffed. "It's not funny, John, I get it, we can't stick anything in it, but you have to help me here. One orgasm, and I will leave you alone." He guffaws. "You are saying it as if I am resisting." "You are! You slept on the sofa today!" "You were molesting me in my sleep!" "You can't blame me, I was asleep myself! It's instinctual! And besides..."

He doesn't let you finish. He presses his mouth to yours and picks you up under your arms. Then he puts you on the window sill and spreads your legs. Your head drops back, and you painfully hit the back of it into the Venetian blinds. Who fucking cares! He drops on his knees in front of you, and you exhale. "Finally, for fuck sake!" He chuckles, and you grab the thick hair at the back of his head. You might be pushing him towards yourself a little bit. "Well, aren't we impatient..." You shiver from the pure indecency of his voice.

Your knickers theatrically fly across the kitchen, and you moan. The cool air hits your heated folds, but is quickly replaced by soft warm lips. You cry out. "You are always such a screamer." He is chuckling, and then the tip of his tongue slides across your labia. "Fuck!" You jump up. He presses a palm to your thigh. "Sit still..."

He lowers his mouth on you, and his movements are slow and gentle. You really don't need much today, and you are sloping down, he has to support your waist, his large hot palms under your ribs.

He licks the clit once and you come, shaking and moaning. Then he lets you go, and you slide down. He actually has to catch you, and you end up on the floor together. He is laughing. "Oh, shut up..." You smack his chest.

You two are sprawled on the floor, he wraps his arms around you, and you are curling up into his side, nuzzling his neck. "Wren, you can't sleep on the floor." "You are very comfortable..." Your eyes are closing, and the last thing you hear is the low rumble of a chuckle in his chest. Oh, the chest, you love the chest…

**XXX**

You wake up in the bed, and it smells like Italian. Your mouth waters. Then an absolutely indecent image of licking red sauce of the corner of his lips leaps into your brain. You have to be honest, you were rather embarrassed for that behaviour of yours later, but then, in that posh Italian restaurant you just couldn't help it. Judging by how he grabbed the back of your head and deepened the kiss, he didn't disapprove.

You trot to the kitchen. He is sitting at the table reading a cookbook. In his glasses. Bugger. He lifts his eyes, and then one black brow starts sliding up. Tosser, he knows precisely what he is doing to you. Time to reciprocate. You've got a thing for his glasses, let's be honest you've got a thing for his everything, but these bloody specs especially, but he is not made of stone either. He would probably be very embarrassed if he knew you knew, but he can never resist your biting. And not necessarily into him.

You pick up a slice of cucumber from the salad bowl and sink your teeth in it with gusto and a loud crunch. He freezes. You finish the slice and pick up another one. "Smells really nice, what is it?" He is silent, eyes dark, fixed on your mouth. You let him enjoy the show of the green ring in front of your mouth for a second, and then you bite into it.

He jumps on his feet, and the chair actually falls on the floor with the bang behind him. You can see cogs frantically turning in his head. He has two ways to go: towards the washroom where he can stick his head under cold water. Probably won't help, he has been sleeping near you for three nights and didn't get any. He could take a shower and attend to his needs. Or he can make a large step towards you and ravish you. He frowns and clenches his teeth. You are slightly pleased to see that the shower option is winning in his head. But you might also be a bit disappointed at his relentless self-control.

You take pity and stretch your hand towards him, "How about we go to bed and help you with your tension?" He opens his mouth but you interrupt him, "But without risking my health obviously." You think you might have been just teleported into the bedroom.

**XXX**

It takes three rounds to release his tension, and you feel very nice and tired now. "So what was it in the oven?" He curses, under his breath obviously, always a gentleman, tumbles off the bed and runs in the kitchen. The view of his naked backside disappearing around the corner might just be your favourite memory of recent. Although no, that time on the bathroom floor just before you thought you got pregnant…

You hear him cursing in the kitchen. Here goes your lunch. He yells from the kitchen, "Take out?" You guess he didn't put the timer on. You giggle. "Sure, but I still want Italian."

You throw his robe on and walk to the kitchen, the window is open and he is waving a tea towel in the air. The smoke is almost gone but the smell of burnt tomato paste is pungent. You giggle, he seriously shouldn't be doing it in the buff. All the swaying...

He pounces on you, and you squeal. "Don't laugh at me!" "I can't help it," you can't breath, squirming to escape his fingers roaming your ribs, "You were waving so thoroughly…." You are roaring with laughter, and unsurprisingly get teleported to the bedroom again.

**XXX**

You are finishing your dinner in bed, since it still smells kind of grotty in the kitchen. Or maybe you two just like it here. He is nibbling on your shoulder, when his landline rings. You didn't even know he had one.

He exchanges a few phrases with whoever is calling, and you understand that it is the concierge. He hangs up and looks at you. "You should probably throw something on, my sister is coming up with an unexpected visit."


	8. Chapter 8

**PERSONAL NOTE: Bear with me, it's a bit longish. I felt it's important to explain why I'm still writing "The Life That Never Was," although it is obviously unpopular with you, my lovelies. I'm going through a hard emotional time (no emotional blackmail :) don't feel sorry or obliged, I'm just sharing the information), I have a relative in the States who is in the hospital with no hope to recover and for unrelated reasons I'm to travel to Russia for a month to spend time with my family. They are a complicated lot, compared to which Durinson/Thorington family dynamics in this story are a picnic in a park, perhaps even with happy clowns and dancing unicorns pooping rainbows. Also, like many women in a long-time marriage I feel sometimes we need to understand what we are without the man who at least partially is shaping us as a person. That is why I felt that writing TLTNW was important for me on a personal level. **

**I wanted to give Wren an opportunity to explore different sides of her personality, be something she could never be with Thorin, freer, more confident. She is still to return to the Mountain in a chapter or two, their lives are inseparable, she is his destiny, but I wanted to see what they become and how they will interact if she was to choose another path. **

**And to lighten the mood, a darker, untamed by his zundush Thorin just tickles my pickle :P I have glorious plans for my babies! Jealous raging Thorin, Wren who still loves him, Amrod claiming what is his… **

**A NOTE ACTUALLY WORTH READING :) This chapter is for ****LABrown16****! My warmest wishes and loads of love for you! I was amazed and honoured to find out that my stories do matter at least a bit to some of you personally, and of course, I will go back to writing about Dr. T since you asked! I got so inspired! Thank you very much!**

You are running around his flat in a futile attempt to find your knickers. And then you remember their glorious flight through the kitchen, and you dash there. "John!" Your voice is way too shrieky. He peeks in, the mauve lacy knickers are on the top of a cupboard. He chuckles and pulls them down. You are twisting out of his grabby hands. "No bloody time for that!" You really need to put something on, but he is apparently overwhelmed by the memories of how the lacy item got there. Bollocks, he does that thing of his with the tongue on your collar bones! You swoon, but then push him away.

You find a pair of denim by the bed but not a single top. "John, where are all my tees?!" "They are in the washing machine." Fuck. "Take something of mine." You jerk the door into his build-in wardrobe and freeze in front of… There are no words to describe this. It is like several boutiques neatly organized on a territory of Poland, colour themed, multi layered shelves, sliding up and down and left and right, and you feel literally dizzy. What the actual fuck? No wonder you always want to jump him, the casual relaxed look that Thea has been admiring so much is a result of very hard work. You tentatively touch the nearest jumper. No way in hell you are touching anything in here! You start backing up, and then you hear voices from the living room. Fucking fuck! You exhale and squeeze your eyes shot. You pull the first item that gets under your hand and put it on. You look in the mirror. You do not look that bad, looks like a dress though, and what the hell, is he catwalking in front of it? The light fixtures are more intricate than some of the lab equipment you had to work over years. Tosser. Posh spoilt narcissistic tosser…

You walk out of the closet and taking a deep breath tread into the living room. Deadre is clad in Chanel, you can recognise it, you watched the film, and is holding a bouquet of carnations. Bollocks, you so want to run right now. She gives you the sincerest of smiles. "Wren, darling, evening! I am so happy to see that you are feeling better! Look at this healthy blush," she gives you one of those airy hugs when lips sort of appear near your ear, her soft locks brush your nose, her posh perfume tickles your nose, and here she moves away and hands you the flowers. "How are you, my dear?" "Much better, thank you." Somehow shagging her older brother just doesn't let you call her Mrs. Durinson.

The aforementioned brother looks peevish. You already forgot this look of his, the one that makes even the most self-assured grown-ups want to scamper or fall through the ground and drill their way to Australia with a teaspoon. "Dea, such a lovely surprise. To what do we owe the honour?" The "we" doesn't escape your attention. And hers as well, since she throws a quick look at your upper body. You rolled up the sleeves and tried to look decent but you are so obviously just out of the sack. The cursed curls are an oreol of orange, and you have a lovebite on your neck. You gave up any attempts to hide them. It is bleeding useless, you are almost certain he purposefully chooses visible spots.

"To be honest," Deadre positions herself on his sofa, you are awkwardly standing with the flowers in your hands, "I had a concern to share with you, sweet." She turns to you, "I apologise for the intrusion, I did not expect to find you here, Wren darling. I knew you were sick, I expected you to be recovering home." Oh mamma mia, end my pain!

John is silent. It is one of his best ploys, the tense silence, when a person starts feeling so uncomfortable and nervous from this dark electricity coursing through the air that they mostly just whimper what they wanted to say and then flee. Deadre is quite obviously expecting a cuppa to be offered to her. You excuse yourself using the flowers as a reason to mince to the kitchen.

You are pouring water in some posh glass monstrosity and feel like sticking your head under the tap as well. Oh this is so awkward! Then you hear them actually raising their voices, Deadre sounds upset, John disdainful. Please, please, please, let them talk about the nuclear crisis in North Korea!

Should you go back? Staying in the kitchen would look suspicious, but you would really hate to walk on them suddenly quite, obviously just having talked about you. Maybe it is still about Kim Jong-il… You lift your chin and strut to them. Deadre is wringing her hands, John is frowning. Oh poop!

She straightens up and focuses on you with a pleasant smile on her face. Alright, that is bloody scary. She has her brother's magnetism and intensity. "Wren, dear, I apologise again for intruding on you two, just a bit of a family trouble." Oh that is fucking cold. Can she be more obviously stating that you are not family? Oh, fuck, even more importantly, why are you even upset about it? It is not like you are! You are not his wife or something. Oh wait…

You smile back, "Of course, you are not intruding, we were just finishing dinner." Which you brother was trying to pretty much lick off my stomach, but whatever. She gracefully claps her hands, Phil has exactly the same gesture. Oh fuck my life… "Enough of the unpleasant conversation. How are you feeling, darling? Medical community is such a tiny village, everyone was talking about your... visit to the hospital." Oh, does she mean that time when her half-dressed brother carried you through the emergency rooms, blood soaking your clothes below your waist? Probably. "Much better, thank you." What else can you say? That you just had three orgasms, but she should not worry, there was no penetration? Bloody tempting.

She gets up. Do they teach this fluidity of movement in their posh schools for very rich girls? She places her narrow palm on your shoulder, the gesture is very affectionate and not at all bloody intrusive. You feel like shrinking away. "I think we are all adults here," is she hinting that some of you here aren't? "So I can openly say that I am very happy for you two." She gives John a warm glance, but the cold composed expression on his face doesn't waver. Let's be fucking honest, you do not believe her either.

You are an adult after all. You square your shoulders. "Thank you, Deadre, it means a lot to me." Her brows fly up, and you catch a glimpse of John's lips twitch. Point Wren. She smiles wider and then leans for a quick hug. You stroke her elegant shoulder blades and wonder if she is going to jab a dagger between yours.

She picks up her Birkin, at least you think that's what it is, and is heading for the door. Alrighty, where is the dagger? "And you should know, Wren, I am certain Phil didn't mean any offense by his behaviour the last time he saw you. He came to me after it, he was rather bedraggled." Bloody fuck, she is good! She turns to John, "You do understand that the boy just misunderstood the whole situation, don't you, darling?" The ball is on John's half, and you wonder whether he is on your team and is going to play nonchalance, or you will have to deal with a jealous barbarian in three, two, one…

He smirks and opens a door for her, "I brought him up, Dea, of course I know how his mind works. He shouldn't worry, all is well. Just what I said to Wren, when she told me about it." The door behind her closes, and you are in deep shite.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: ****UKReader****, so much warmth and support from you and when I especially needed it! I love you, darling! (By now everyone is prepared for my perpetual outbursts of affection, right?:)**

**A/N#2: ****RagdollPrincess****, little something for you! Mwah! (That was an air kiss :)**

He turns around and starts walking to the kitchen, the muscles of his gorgeous muscular back tense under a thin cashmere. No way in hell you are mincing after him like a puppy that peed on a carpet and now is wagging its tail for forgiveness! You have nothing to apologise for. It was more than eight weeks ago, and nothing happened. Phil offered you to get back together, you said no. And he called your first magical weekend with John "shagfest." Wanker.

"What was it all about? Why did your sister come?" There is no answer from the kitchen. Really? What is he, twelve? Can he be more passive-aggressive? You come in, and he is pouring water in a kettle. "What did Deadre want to talk about?" He is very preoccupied with mugs and tea leaves and mutters, "Killian." Are you supposed to drag every word out of him? You give him a pointed stare, which is wasted since he is not looking at you. "He has an affair with an older woman. She is a widow, very liberal and apparently 'not good for him'." John mimics his sister's melodic voice, and it sounds endlessly hilarious. If only his eyes weren't that tense. Bugger, bugger, panic mode! You honestly don't know what is the right approach to such situation.

And then the meaning reaches you poor squawking brain. "What?! He is gay!" That at least shook him out of his brooding. The blue eyes fly at you, black brows hike up. "What? You didn't know?" "You slept with him!" Oh right… You haven't talked about it.

"I haven't. We went on a date, through which we talked about the girl he sort of fancied at the time, since I think he still doesn't realize himself, we snogged and stuff, and it's funny, because it is plain as day, and Lan said..." "What about Philip?" Interrupting is very rude, John! You blink, "What about him? Him I did shag, you sort of walked on us once, remember?" He is glaring at you. That stopped being scary a while ago. Sure thing, you love him and don't want to aggravate him in any way, that's why you care what you say and how he takes it, but he is just not intimidating anymore, probably since you know he is ticklish on the inside of his wrists and mumbles Steven Tyler's lyrics in his sleep. And makes funny half sobbing, half chuckling noises during ejaculation.

"That picture is forever etched in my brain. What did Dea mean?" Alrighty, there are two ways out of it. Agree that he has the right to question you this way and tell him exactly what happened. Or let your temper flare up and tell him to shove his question… where the sun don't shine. You are pondering, he is boiling. You honestly do not know.

You sit on a chair, "I'll be frank with you now, John, I don't know if you have the right to give me this look right now. Do you honestly think I'm hiding an affair with Phil from you here? Or do you think it is your innate right as my master and commander to punish any male who has the bold nerve in his body to look at me? Or you are genuinely concerned that your nephew who is a player but otherwise a decent person most of the time has hurt me in some way?"

He does what any man would do in this situation. Picks one small detail and latches on it. Pillock. "Decent person?!" He bangs his palm into the counter. "I specifically remember you behaving like a recent rape victim in the fields around the mansion after he had a heart to heart conversation with you."

You narrow your eyes. That was bloody low. Then comes the natural reaction, you start hissing, "That is not what we are talking about at the moment, John. This is between me and Phil. We were talking about the fact that you let your manipulative sister make you doubt me. Do you honestly think I would purposefully hide something important from you?" He is leaning on the counter, his palms pressed in it, head lowered, and this is the moment of truth.

He exhales sharply and lifts his face. It is soft, and his eyes are apologetic. "Forgive me, I was…" "A wanker?" "Rash." You chuckle, "That is one way to put it." He sighs, "You did date Philip." "Yes, I did. Such a pity you were a pure innocent virgin when I took you by the hand and led you to my lair of sin." He laughs, you so much love this laughter, his shoulders shake, and blue irises hide behind lashes.

He walks around the bar counter and stands in front of you. You are on a barstool and still have to look up. He tenderly kisses you, hands on your shoulders, and you playfully claw on his chest.

"I have an issue with you and Philip talking." What? You inhale full lungs to start raving. He presses his index finger to your lips. "Don't be me, Wren, listen before judging." He is smiling, and you are frozen with round cheeks full of air. And then he does the most unexpected thing in the world. Dr. John Crispin Thorington gently pokes your cheeks with his index fingers making you do the "poopf". You are staring at him in disbelief. That causes another bout of guffawing. You're glad he is having fun.

"I don't like you talking with him because I am a jealous imbecile and because I am worried he will hurt you somehow. Not physically obviously, but unlike you I don't think he is a decent person." You open your mouth to object. The finger is on your lips again. "He has a good heart but he is weak. He allows his mother make choices for him and doesn't ever think about consequences. If he had followed through, you would have been engaged to him by now, although marrying him would be the worst thing for you."

That is not quite alright. "And you do know what is the best thing for me?" Your tone is acidic. "Of course not, but you were in love with me already and yet you let him drag you into relationships, Wren." You do want to get it straight, you are barmy about him but even through the pink mist of your enamoured mushiness and the shivers that his large delectable body sends through your neurones you notice the flaw in his logic. Chauvinistic pig.

"It sounds as if I had no say in it, John. I wouldn't have accepted his proposal. That would be just mental." "But you did start dating him, and that is after you fell for me," he sounds very pleased with himself. "I started dating after you offered me to become your doxy and I told you to arse off. Twice." "That you did," he is murmuring, lowering his mouth to your neck, "Good girl." That was very condescending and definitely doesn't call for any encouraging behaviour. Such as tilting your head so that he can kiss that very spot on your throat.

"You really need to get better soon, Wren, I am dying here," his hot mouth is sliding on the tendons of your neck, while one arm snakes around your middle. "You just had three rounds of small death, John," you just can't help it with puns, but let's face it, this one was just asking for it. "As much as I appreciate your talented mouth, darling," his palm lies between your legs, and you drop your head back, "nothing compares to this. That is where I belong." That wasn't even very proprietary. "Also, I think our engagement asks for more celebration." Your eyes fly open. Yeah, you sort of forgot about that... Bollocks.


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Firstly, just letting you know that my flight to Mother Russia (do not forget to pronounce it in your head as Muzzuh Rrrrrushuh:) is on Wednesday, and Rassilon knows what my writing/updating is going to be like there. I might just keep on going the same way, if I am left alone enough, or might be mute and unresponsive till June 1st, when I am back to Mother Canada (let's face it, at this stage Russia is more of a wicked stepmother for me:) My posh intrusive family are an unpredictable lot :)**

**Secondly, thank you for reminding me about "Drunk" series in "We Are Scattered," I completely forgot about it. Also, for the life of me, I cannot remember what was to be in the last part. I really had a manky couple of weeks, I'm slightly bedraggled. Can you throw me some song prompts for it, please? Anybody? Everybody? :) The more the better! :)**

**Thirdly, I think this chapter and the next one (if I finish it today) might be my last updates for a while, so thank you all for reading and reviewing my stories! I LOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH! I am overly emotional right now, bear with me! :) I am actually tearing up here...**

You are taking short sporadic breaths in, everything is swimming in front of your eyes, and you feel Thea's hand stroking your back. "Breathe, chick, common… You don't want to faint now..." Really, Thea? Well done. You feel suddenly more dizzy, and you grab the armrest. Another one is occupied with Thea's glorious backside. There is knock at the door, some movement, and John scoots in front of you. His face is hazy, but you can see that the blue eyes are tense.

"How are you, kiddo?" You are trying to take a deep breath, but it bloody hurts in your chest. "I can't, John, I just can't..." He puts his heavy hand on your shoulder, but it is only worse. You feel suffocated and try shrinking away from him. "Breathe, Wrennie, common..." Thea's trying to sound comforting, but you get irked. "Could you just?.." You gesture away from yourself, and she slides off the armrest she was sitting on. You see her exchanging worried looks with John, and you grind your teeth. They are treating you like they are on a suicide watch. You are just having a panic attack. No biggie…

Thea leaves the room, and John kneels in front of you on the floor. You momentarily lament his posh trousers. "Wrennie..." "John, I can't, I'm sorry I just can't… Never in my bloody life… The aisle, the staring, the poncy vicar…" You start hyperventilating, and you are surely green in the face. Bugger, bugger, bugger…

"Sod it all, I really can't, please… There are going to be seven hundred people there, and I can't even do it in front of twenty… Please, John, don't make me…" "Wrennie, I am not making you, you agreed to marry me yourself..." "I really didn't know what I was agreeing at!" You cry out and focus on his face. The lips are in a stern line, and his eyes are cold. "Oh please, JOhn, don't… It's not you, it's me!" Seriously, Wren?! Bollocks, you really need to learn to explain yourself.

He lowers his head and gives out a sigh. Oh, you upset him. Bugger. But you really, really can't… He inhales and lifts his face to you. There is a stressed wrinkle between his brows, but his eyes are determined. "Wren, let's agree on this. We are going to go through the steps now, and then we will go home and talk about it," you gulp, in the vestry it sounds very loud, all the echo and shite.

He places his hands on your knees and squeezes a bit, "Wren, look at me." His voice is low and velvet, and you manage to take a decent breath and actually almost straighten up in the chair. Almost being the key word. "Wren, focus on me." You look into his extraordinary eyes. Bloody hell, he is so gorgeous. "We will come out of this room, and we will go through the steps, and you will be looking at me the whole time." The thought of going down that bloody aisle makes you squeak. "Wren," he suddenly spreads your knees, and you are momentarily distracted from your terror, "You will keep your eyes on me and the whole time you are walking towards the altar you will be thinking of what I am going to do to you when we get home." His voice is totally indecent, and he knows it. He presses himself to you, kneeling in front of you, and his palms slide on your hips.

"John!" You emit an undignified squeak, and he presses you into him, palms slip under the buttocks, his lips on your clavicles. "You will be thinking of how I will spread you on the bed and will eat you out, again and again, until you are so weak from screaming my name that you won't have voice to plead." "John, we are in church!" He chuckles into your neck that he is currently sucking on, "You don't even believe in God, Wren." "I have respect for other people's faith," you try to sound haughty, but oh bollocks!.. One of his hot palm cups your breast under the tee and the bra, how did he even get there? And he does that thing… Oh the thing… Your nipple under his thumb's ministrations perks up, and you moan. Oh sod it! You catch his mouth and stick your tongue down his throat. It is for greater good, you are actually doing it to stop living in sin with him, even the vicar would approve of it.

You are making out for a bit, and then you push him away. "Totally inappropriate, John, Very, very bad behaviour!" He blinks couple times, you do know how to achieve this dazed look on him. Ha, who needs to focus now! You two straighten up your clothes, and you exhale a long tragic breath. "Well?" He is looking at you, eyes laughing, and you nod.

"I will do it. Just one time. And then we will go home, and we will talk about it." "Very well," he gets up, and he needs to adjust his crotch. "Perhaps, I need a moment," he closes his eyes, and you chuckle. "But don't forget about it completely, you just made some wicked promises here, John." He opens one cerulean eye and looks at you. "I am aware, Wren." You giggle.

He gives you his hand, and you walk out together. Maybe you can do it, you just need to focus on him. No biggie, just a wedding rehearsal, no biggie. Oh poop.

**XXX**

"Oh god... Oh god... Oh. My. Fucking. God!" He is sucking at your clit, and then a finger slides into you, again, and you are screaming. That would be the third round, and after two orgasms you have to agree, when he promises, he delivers.

While his index finger slips in and out of you, his thumb and his lips caressing your folds, you suddenly feel his other hand slide under your bum, and its index finger presses in your other hole. He makes a soft circular movement, and you honestly cannot understand anymore where one sensation stops and another starts. He pushes both fingers in, all together the caresses unite in a harmonious melody, and you come with a low moan. He was right, you have no voice left. You fall on the sheets, and he halts all movement, which you are very, very grateful for, and presses his cheek to your stomach. The scraping of the beard is delightfully familiar, and in your endorphin flooded brain tenderness and love explode in an intoxicating cocktail. He is so good...

"Right now, John, I am thinking a wedding is a lovely idea..." You are staring at the ceiling. He chuckles and presses a kiss above your hip bone. You have a pulse beating there, he really loves this spot. "That is why I am not asking now. You are hardly impartial at the moment."

He gently pulls his hands from between your legs and slides higher. He presses a few kisses on your ribs and breasts, and you sigh. He kisses the very peak of your nipple, and you giggle. "As cheap of a trick as it is, I am going to make us a bath now, Wren, and we will talk in it." You hum in appreciation, and he rolls off the bed and disappears in the bathroom. You stretch on the bed and stare at the Kandinsky above your head. You wiggle your toes, they are on a pillow somehow, and listen to muffled sounds coming from behind the closed door.

And then you think that if you go through with it, you will have to listen to these noises all your life, till death do you part so to say, and you will have to live together, and have breakfast together, and he didn't even let you have your own shelf in his closet.

You are really not sure what you are thinking about it. On the other hand you don't have to talk about it now. You can just soak, and make bubble wigs with him, and pretend everything is fine. You are good at it.


End file.
